My
journey to otherness began at a young age. I was seven when my parents decided
the state-run village school I attended wasn’t good enough for me. It didn’t
matter that I was happy there, or that I would miss my two best friends –
Victoria, a graceful, pretty, blonde girl I thought could have been a princess,
and little Alex, a funny, feisty tom-boy. I have fond memories of the three of
us performing ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” to anyone who cared to pay attention in
the playground at break times.
I was ostracised before I’d been given a chance and I quickly became used to my own company. To be honest it was a good lesson to learn, together with developing a heightened sense of danger. I became very good at spotting potential situations that would be better for me to avoid. I would have made a good candidate for ninja school.
With
apathy masquerading as best intentions I was shipped off to a Catholic school
in the nearby town. I doubt I put up too much of a fight. My father, a stern
disciplinarian, would have had none of it. He thought the strict environment of
a religious institution was just what was needed to help me grow into the best
possible version of myself. It is ironic that, to this day, he remains a
staunch atheist.
It
started as soon as I arrived. I’m not sure why one particular classmate took an
instant dislike to me but she did. I was introduced to the class as “Fiona
Catrina Maclaren” and by the time I was seated at her table, just seconds
later, she had labelled me with a cruel nickname. Derived from the Scottish
roots of my name, it haunted me for the four years I spent at that school.
I was ostracised before I’d been given a chance and I quickly became used to my own company. To be honest it was a good lesson to learn, together with developing a heightened sense of danger. I became very good at spotting potential situations that would be better for me to avoid. I would have made a good candidate for ninja school.
It
wasn’t until a couple of years later when another new girl started that I made
a friend. Angela didn’t need a nickname as she came with her own. Her surname was
Burke. “A Burke” and I found comfort in our little bubble of exclusion. We
bonded over a love of Adam Ant and swapped tales of authoritarian fathers. She
even had me singing in the playground again, though this time around it was
“Prince Charming” and “Kids in America”, with ABBA consigned to the bin.
I
don’t think about those days often, though I have to say they left their mark.
Like a little tattoo somewhere so discreet that only a few would ever get a
glimpse.
Through
the power of modern technology I am in touch with “A Burke”. I’ve since moved
hundreds of miles away whilst she still lives within a stone’s throw of our old
stomping ground. Until recently the last I’d heard of my tormentor was that she
was at university studying law. I imagined a glorious career as a hard-nosed
defence lawyer. The kind that gets the guilty off scot-free.
A
recent conversation changed that. An opportunity presented itself for me to
nonchalantly enquire about the lawyer during a “Whatever happened to ...”
discussion.
“Oh,
didn’t you know?” Came the response. “She died of breast cancer in her late
twenties.”
It’s
hard to know what to feel about news such as this. Fifteen-year old news about
someone who shaped my life in the way she did.
But
I’ll work it out. I always do.
Black Sheep
Black
sheep, don’t cry
Your
rainbow will shine
In
a gentle heart’s presence
Black
sheep, don’t ask why
Walk
your path with purpose
You
weren’t meant to follow the flock
Black
sheep, fly high
Break
the chains of judgement
Soar
above the clouds with your dream
Thank
you for reading,
Fiona